His Mistake
by The Umbrella
Summary: JD and Janitor have always been enemies. What happens when Janitor takes it too far? Character Death. Characters: JD, Janitor, Cox, Carla. JD/Cox in later chapters.
1. Weapon

Title: His Mistake

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Character Death

A/N: Written for impromptu50. I've got big plans for this story line and the one to follow it. I'm looking at this story to have around four chapters, and then there will be a series following it around ten chapters in length. Granted, of course, if y'all want me to.

Summary: JD and Janitor have always been enemies. What happens when Janitor takes it too far?

* * *

JD sat on the bench in the locker room with his book bag open between his knees. He stared into the open locker. His eyes had a glazed sheen to them. He hadn't moved in the past five minutes.

Janitor watched JD with a smirk. He had a sudden thought of Jurassic Park. He wondered if gel-head thought a janitor's vision was based on movement. Janitor considered the idea. It may have merit. People often complained of messes and stains he never saw. Stains tend to sit _very_ _still_.

He couldn't tell from JD's posture if the young doctor was happy, sad, or daydreaming. But Janitor knew what could. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved a nickel. The nickel test was a tried and true indicator of a person's emotions. If the victim reached for the nickel quickly, he was happy. If his movements were slow, he was sad. If he didn't move at all, then he was off in la-la-idiot-boy land.

Janitor took a steadying breath and lined up his shot. This would be a tricky one - he would have to get it over the locker door, far enough that it didn't land in the book bag, but not so far that it went rolling away into the darkness beneath the lockers. He intended to take it back as soon as the test was done.

He threw the nickel. It arced through the air and landed beside JD's bag with a satisfactory ding. JD's eyes immediately snapped downwards at the sound.

Janitor grinned. Happy. He could fix that easy enough.

JD voiced a soft note of eager surprise as he knelt down to pick up the shiny coin. Janitor made his move. With two large steps, he marched into the locker room and stood behind the open door. JD was down on the floor below him, picking up the nickel. A sharp_ psst!_ brought his attention to the man above him.

Janitor smiled down at the young doctor. "Look with your eyes," he said, and with one swift kick, he knocked the locker door into JD's face. The boy let out a sharp yelp, before falling back, arms sprawled out at odd angles. Janitor bent down and plucked the nickel from JD's lax grip. "Take with your hands," he finished.

Whistling a tune, Janitor put the nickel back in his pocket where it belonged.

* * *

Dr. Cox stepped into the locker room, shrugging off his stained lab coat. Mr. Kemp had had the brilliant idea to vomit onto Dr. Cox's chest during his physical. Needless to say, the event had set the tone for the rest of his day.

What he discovered sprawled out on the locker room floor didn't make him feel any better.

Dr. Cox cringed at the still form of JD lying before him. He had done so well to avoid the boy all day. It was looking like it might be a new record. But now here he was, lying in wait. Literally. Dr. Cox yanked open his locker door and pulled out a fresh coat. "Whatever you're planning, save it," he mumbled to the young doctor. "I am really not in the mood . . ." He stared at the stained coat for a moment, before tossing it unceremoniously into the locker. He'd worry about washing it later.

He glanced over the door, a little disconcerted at the kid's silence. JD lay still, his eyes closed. Dr. Cox kicked JD's shoe. "Hey, Melinda," he stated. Nothing. He let out a shrill whistle and clapped his hands together. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty." JD laid still.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the boy. JD's nose was turned at an odd angle. A thin trail of dried blood ran down his cheek and disappeared into his hair. His lips were pale, tinged with blue.

Dr. Cox beat his locker door out of the way and knelt down next to the prone figure. "JD?" he called, reaching a hand out to grasp his chin. Soft skin gave easily underneath his fingers. The head rotated loosely, offering no resistance. Dr. Cox's fingers skirted down to JD's exposed neck, feeling for a pulse.

Nothing.

"Shit," he murmured. Turning, he bellowed out into the hall, "Help! Doctor needs help in here!" Turning back to JD, he tilted his chin up and leaned down to begin CPR.

* * *

Janitor leaned heavily on his mop, watching people rush past him. He was curious to know what was happening, but he didn't feel like moving. It had been a trying day. He decided on a compromise.

Standing straight, he let the handle of his mop drop into the path of a young intern. The boy tripped spectacularly and fell to the floor. Doing well to hide his grin, Janitor leaned down and offered the boy a hand. "Gotta watch yourself there," he said. "Mops can be _pretty_ unpredictable."

"Thanks," the boy said gratefully, accepting the hand up.

"What's all the rush?" Janitor asked casually.

The intern stared down the hall. "It's Dr. Dorian. He's hurt." He looked uncomfortable, like he was divulging secret information to one not worthy of hearing it.

Janitor frowned. His mother had always told him he was the worthiest of the worthy. How dare this intern contradict his mother? "Isn't he always? I've had to clean up after his spills more times than . . . well, regular spills."

The intern fidgeted a little. "I think this is serious," he said. Janitor felt his smirk slip. Nodding to the boy, he let the intern go.

Now he faced a real quandary. Idiot doctor may be hurt - seriously - and this was something he very much wanted to see. However, it would still require movement, and as far as he knew he wasn't getting paid by the step.

Shrugging, he picked up the mop and followed the intern.

* * *

Dr. Cox leaned away from the gurney, breathing hard. He stared down at the lifeless form stretched out before him. Doctors and nurses milled around, watching. Useless bodies, all of them. Pulling his pager from his waistband, he checked the clock. "Time of death: 11.45 am." A soft murmur arose from the room's occupants. Dr. Cox raised his eyes to scan the crowd.

_What happened?_ came a soft whisper, bouncing wildly off the silent walls. Answers followed, rumors chasing speculations._ I heard he slipped and fell - banged his head on the locker - always a clumsy boy - just a matter of time until something like this happened - drowned in his own blood_ . . .

He had been alive just yesterday. Talking, laughing, unforgivably annoying, living . . . breathing. Those bright blue eyes staring at him. Soft mouth smiling shyly. He felt his throat constrict painfully.

Dr. Cox gripped the pager tight. Whirling around, he threw it into the room, screaming his rage as the plastic box shattered against the wall. The older doctors edged their way out of the room. Those too young to know danger when they saw it were gently shooed away by the nurses.

An intern made the mistake of trying to cover the body with a white cloth. Dr. Cox pounced on the boy, tossing him aside with a growl. Shaking a finger in the kid's face (and amazed at himself that it wasn't a fist), he stated, "Don't. Touch. Him." His voice was shaking. The young man nodded and fled.

Turning back to the body, he stared down at it. The sheet lay crooked over the body. Dr. Cox grimaced as he reached down to pull it straight. Fingers brushed limp hair away from a cold forehead. His chest felt tight. He wondered for a moment if he was having a heart attack.

A soft, warm voice sang out beside him. "Breath, Perry . . ."

He tried and met with limited success. His mouth was clamped tightly shut. Dr. Cox feared the sounds that might come out if he dared open it. A small hand patted soothing circles on his shoulder. Her soft sniffle echoed in the empty room.

Dr. Cox reached up to take Carla's hand and squeezed it tight. He stared down at JD. The corners of his lifeless mouth were turned up in a faux grin. Dr. Cox shook his head. "Stupid kid . . ."

* * *

The mean doctor and the small, saucy nurse lady were standing in the hall. Janitor slowed his steps as a pair of men wheeled a gurney out of a room, a black bag lying atop the white sheets. He moved aside to give the two men room to perform their grim task.

The front flap was left open. Janitor caught sight of dark hair and pale skin as the gurney squeaked by. He smirked. "Already played that card, my friend," he shouted after the men. "I know your tricks!"

"He's dead, you idiot," came a voice behind him. Janitor turned to see the tall doctor glaring at him.

"Dead?" Janitor echoed.

"Yeah," quipped Dr. Cox, his voice strained. "Didn't the body bag clue you in to that minute detail?"

Janitor swallowed thickly. His foot suddenly throbbed from where he'd kicked against the locker door. He glanced over his shoulder at the retreating gurney. The two men were stopped at the elevator. A sudden thought - a plea almost - popped into his head. _I didn't mean to_. It ran through his mind, pounding a steady tempo into his brain, over and over and over again, blocking out all other sights and sounds, tunneling his vision to that bag, the body inside it, the gurney being rolled into the elevator, being taken down into the basement, being cut up by a disgruntled man with a sucker stick dangling from his mouth -

"What?"

Janitor turned to look down at Dr. Cox. The mean doctor was staring up at him with those crazy eyes, wide and confused. "What did you say?"

Janitor thought. "I didn't mean to . . . say anything. I didn't mean to say anything." He nodded and forced a smile.

Dr. Cox's eyes narrowed. Janitor could almost feel him thinking, processing, putting ideas together to form theories._ He doesn't know. He _can't_ know._

Nodding to the man, Janitor clenched his mop tight in his hands and turned to leave. An iron grip clamped down on his elbow, pulling him back.

"You always hated him," Dr. Cox hissed, eyes accusing.

Janitor looked from the hand on his arm to the doctor's pale face. "So did you."

Pulling free from the suddenly loose grip, Janitor whistled a tune and walked down the hall.

* * *

A/N2: Feedback is appreciated!


	2. Nosebleed

Title: His Mistake, Part 2/4

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Violence, character death

A/N: Written for impromptu50. I'm just killing everyone off, aren't I?

Summary: Janitor's mistake was an accident. His death was not.

* * *

Janitor sat in his living room, facing the blank television screen. His shoulders were slumped. A half finished bottle of beer dangled from his fingers. A puddle of condensation was collecting on the wooden floor beneath it.

Janitor held still, pretending to be asleep. His eyes were cracked open, watching the reflections that shifted across his TV screen. He could see the lamp, the tiny bookshelf filled with dusty trinkets his mother had given him. He could see the small table. An empty goldfish bowl sat on its stained top. He could see the window behind him, two feet to his right. The streetlight outside illuminated the window. A face peered in at him.

He wondered if this would be the night. It couldn't stay out there forever.

Janitor blinked and shifted a little. He stared at the television screen. The face was gone.

* * *

Things had been quiet since the accident. Life had resumed around the hospital, with only a few subtle changes. People were sad, patients asked where their doctor had gone, but other than that things were normal.

Well, almost normal.

Janitor had the oddest feeling as he patrolled the halls of Sacred Heart, like he was being watched. He avoided going near the locker room. The doctors could clean up after themselves.

He turned the corner, dragging a broom behind him. It was still there, that feeling of eyes on his back. Stopping, he turned to look over his shoulder. The hall was relatively empty. A young nurse escorted an elderly man to his room. Two doctors stood chatting near the elevator. Mean Doctor leaned against the wall, flipping through a chart.

Janitor turned and continued down the hall. The eyes followed him.

* * *

Sometimes he wondered if it was Him. He already knew there were ghosts roaming these halls. How else could he explain the supplies that went missing during the night or the way things would occasionally rearrange themselves? Couldn't be the interns. They were too afraid of him to go near his things.

He sprayed a blue cleaner across the countertop and wiped at it with a rag. Squeaky clean.

The eyes were developing a pattern. He felt them mostly when he was in the halls. When he disappeared into his closet or ventured into a patient's room, the eyes' presence dropped off. He found that odd. If it was Him, wouldn't He follow him everywhere? Wouldn't He spend most of His time in the patient's rooms? It didn't make sense.

And why was He following him anyway? Granted, Janitor may have played a small part in His untimely . . . absence of life, but still. Didn't He have better things to do? Was He waiting for a confession? Janitor frowned at the counter. That would be long in coming. He shook his head and kept wiping.

Here it came, sneaky thing.

Janitor whirled around, brandishing the blue cleaner before him. Dr. Cox ducked the spray, then stood, his eyes furious.

"Oh," Janitor smiled. "Sorry. Thought you were someone else."

Dr. Cox glared at the man. "Watch yourself, Jumpsuit," he growled, setting a chart down onto the counter before stalking of down the hall. Janitor watched him go. He looked around, to see if anyone else was nearby.

Turning back, Janitor looked at the air before him. "Scooter?" he whispered.

* * *

Janitor jumped. A hard tapping echoed throughout his empty house. Janitor looked around, trying to remember what room he was in. Television. Lamp. Living room. The tapping persisted, growing louder. Lurching to his feet, Janitor tried not to trip over the numerous beer cans that littered the floor. He almost succeeded.

Staggering to the front door, Janitor yanked it open. The porch was empty, as was his front yard. Janitor squinted into the night. "Go away, Scooter!" he managed to shout. "Go away!" His voice sounded more pleading than demanding.

The tapping came again, becoming something closer to a series of stead bangs. Janitor stared at the porch confused. Stepping inside the house, he closed the door. The banging was louder. Turning, he decided to try the back door.

He carefully made his way through the dark house. Stepping into the kitchen, he opened the door a crack. "Scooter?"

The door banged inward, crashing into Janitor's nose and sending him across the room. He landed on his back with a thud and a groan. Pain flared across his face. He felt something wet oozing down over his lips.

A figure clad in shadows stood on the doorstep. Janitor started, and grasped at the small dining table in the center of the room as he pulled himself up. The table buckled under his weight, collapsing beside him. Breathing hard, he scooted himself back across the linoleum floor as the apparition glided slowly into the room.

"What do you want?" Janitor cried out, his voice hoarse. "Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here," a low voice said. "Don't play games."

Janitor's back hit against the doorframe. "I don't understand," he told the tall figure, avoiding its angry blue eyes. "I didn't do anything - "

"Don't lie!" the voice raged. "You know what you did. You may have everyone else fooled, but not me. I've had my eye on you."

Janitor used the doorframe to pull himself to his feet. "I know," he whispered. "I could feel you behind me." The two stood still a moment, each holding their own ground. There was a strong taste of blood at the back of his throat.

Janitor turned and fled into the house. Ducking into the living room, dashing down the hallway, past the closet, into the bedroom. A weight crashed upon his back and the two fell to the floor in a heap. Janitor reached up for the phone on the bedside table, twisting around to slam it into the dark face. The figure cried out as it made contact. Janitor felt the receiver being pulled from his hand before his arm was wrenched painfully to the side. He felt more than heard the joint disconnecting and shouted in pain.

Kicking, he heard a grunt from the other and the arms around his chest loosened. Stumbling to his feet, Janitor jumped over the body on the ground and ran back into the hall. Footsteps sounded behind him. Taking refuge behind his chair in the living room, Janitor groped for something to use as a weapon. Hitting upon a half-empty bottle of beer, he raised it to his lips for a quick sip before tossing it over the back of the chair. He heard it shatter against the wall. The footsteps stopped.

Janitor held still, nursing his sore shoulder. He picked up another bottle, preparing himself.

The chair flew away from him, revealing the tall man. Janitor yelped as the furniture toppled into his shelf. He threw the bottle as he tried to scrabble away. An arm beat the glass away and reached down for him. Janitor cried out as a hand grasped his injured shoulder. Swinging up, he felt his fist connect with the other's face. A gasp of pain sounded from him, but didn't slow him down. Fingers curled in Janitor's hair, pulling his head hard to the left. Janitor followed as he was dragged over to the tall lamp in the corner.

As he was released, Janitor felt an irrational surge of hope wash through him. The dark shadow was working on his lamp, ripping the shade off and disconnecting the stand from its heavy base. Janitor crawled over to a pile of shattered glass. He picked up a large shard and hid it behind his back.

The figure stepped up to him, holding the metal rod like a club. Janitor looked up through the darkness, thankful for the window that shed a little light into the room. "Aren't you going to tell me not to struggle? That it'll only make it worse if I struggle?"

"But I want it to be worse," the voice breathed, gasping a little around his injured jaw. "I want it to be slow and painful. I want you to suffer."

Janitor shook his head, confusion overwhelming his fear for a moment. "I don't understand. You didn't suffer. You were unconscious the whole time. I heard the doctors say so!"

The figure cocked an eyebrow at his words. Janitor continued. "It was a mistake! I didn't mean to kill you. You weren't supposed to die!"

"Jumpsuit," the voice sounded, softer than before. "Who do you think I am?"

Janitor stared at the figure through the dark. Dark hair ended in curls, not shaggy spikes. Blue eyes were tired and aged. The shadow of a beard circled a lean jaw and pointed chin.

Perry stepped close, allowing a block of light to fall across his face. A line of blood dripped from a cut across his temple. A matching trail ran from his split lip. Janitor allowed himself to be stunned for a moment, before lunging forward. He shoved the glass shard deep into Perry's leg. He heard a scream above him as the man toppled forward. Janitor felt the breath being knocked from his chest as Perry's knee made contact with his ribs. Something cracked. It suddenly became difficult to breathe.

Groaning, he grasped onto the metal rod, attempting to wrench it from Perry's iron grip. Perry used the momentum to knock Janitor back, straddling his waist. The two fought for control of the club. Leaning forward, Perry pressed his weight down onto the bar. Janitor's injured arm gave in and the lamp post came crashing down against his throat. He tried to cough, but there was no air.

"You were wrong, by the way," Perry managed. "He did suffer. He lay there, unable to move -" Perry pressed harder. "It took a long time, twenty minutes at least. He . . . he just lay there drowning in his own blood." Janitor's good arm came up to Perry's face. The older doctor batted it away. "Can you imagine? Can you imagine what it's like to suffocate for that long?"

Janitor's eyes bulged behind his closed eyelids. Mustering his strength, he bucked his hips up, knocking Perry to the side. Janitor coughed, taking in more air than his tired lungs wanted. Rolling to the side, he kept going until his side hit against the baseboard. Perry had managed to crawl to his knees, using the rod as a support. Janitor looked into his eyes. He saw pain, sorrow, anger. Conviction.

Janitor came to a grim realization. He was going to die tonight.

Perry stood and slowly stalked towards the doomed man. Janitor shook his head. He didn't understand. He didn't understand any of this.

"Why does it matter?" he shouted, his throat protesting at the effort to speak. "You don't care about him! You never did."

The shadow stared sadly down at Janitor. His voice was soft when he finally spoke. "Yes I did." He grasped the metal pole tightly in his hands. "I always have."

Perry swung down at him. Janitor closed his eyes.

* * *

A/N2: Halfway done. Feedback is appreciated!


	3. Lovers

Title: His Mistake

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Slash

A/N: Written for impromptu50. Part three of the 'His Mistake' series. Don't be confused by the beginning - just keep reading. Also, I've decided to extend this story to five chapters instead of four. Hope no one minds. ;)

Summary: Not all mistakes lead to unpleasant endings. Depends on how you look at it.

* * *

_Two years, eight months, twelve days ago . . ._

Perry wandered into the locker room. He had his lab coat off, stashed in his locker and jacket on in record time. Brushing his hands quickly over his pockets, he checked off the list that ran through his head at the end of each shift: keys, wallet, glasses, phone . . . where was his phone?

He frowned as his hands moved more thoroughly through his pockets. Spare change, lint, movie stub from the new superhero flick, more change. No phone.

Perry swore as he tore the jacket off to look through the inside pockets. Coming up empty he ran a hand over his scrubs as the other opened his locker door once again. Bending down and ignoring the protesting of his sore back, he began rifling through the locker's contents.

A soft beeping sang out. Perry sat back on his heels, listening. It was his ring tone, but it wasn't coming from the locker before him. Turning, he looked over his shoulder to the back corner of the room. The light in the recessed section flickered occasionally, but for the most part remained off. A pair of legs stuck out from behind a row of lockers.

Perry recognized the shoes. He knew only one doctor immature enough to wear sneakers with gold lightening bolts flashing across the sides. Lurching to his feet, he growled as he stalked over to the still figure. "Gloria!" he barked. "I don't know how you managed to snatch my phone, and I don't particularly care why. Just give it back and let me go home before I -"

Perry rounded the corner and came to a halt. JD sat propped up against the wall. His head rested against his chest. His arms hung limp at his sides. A thick red liquid oozed a trail over his jaw and down his throat.

" - kill you," Perry finished. The muscles along his shoulders tightened. He stood still, staring down at the kid, noting the absence of the normal rise and fall of his chest.

He swiftly knelt next to the body. His hands reached out to grasp JD's face, tilting it up. His skin was a pale contrast to the red ribbon winding its way down his neck. "JD?" he called, his voice taking on a tone of urgency. He turned the head back and forth, looking for bruises or injuries that would explain the blood. His fingers shifted down to feel for a pulse.

Perry paused. There was a strong pulse beating beneath his fingertips.

"Rraawwwr!" JD screamed, lunging at Perry. The older man cried out in surprise and fell back, scooting away from the body. JD leaned back against the wall, laughing loudly. He clapped his hands before him in a self-congratulatory motion.

"What the hell is this?" Perry gasped, still to stunned to move. He watched JD wipe a bit of the blood away, then stick the bloody finger in his mouth. He felt the first signs of his rage beginning to flare. It was a pressure against the back of his eyes, a hot flash that raced across his brain, making his scalp tingle.

JD, still smiling, used the wall to push himself to his feet. "It's called payback, Perry," JD said. "Remember? Two weeks ago? You bribed the children in pediatrics to jump me." JD reached out a hand to Perry. "I'm still wearing bruises shaped like tiny fists."

Perry stared at the offered hand, then glared up at the kid. He watched JD wipe the back of his fist under his chin, rubbing off most of the red and smearing a trail of it across his jaw. Raising a hand, Perry accepted the help up. When JD attempted to tug away, Perry clenched the hand tight in his grasp.

"Payback, huh?" Perry asked, his voice terrifyingly calm. JD again tried to pull his hand away from Perry. The older doctor held tight and advanced on JD. "Perhaps you'd prefer adult-sized bruises."

"Um - " JD began, but was cut off by Perry's mouth as it crashed against his own. JD cringed back from the violent gesture, but found a wall behind him. Perry pressed him tight between the tiles and his own body as he kissed JD. He reached up a hand to grasp JD's chin, holding him still as he forced the young man's mouth open. JD finally stopped resisting and groaned as Perry's tongue swept the curve of his lips and quickly ran over the roof of his mouth.

JD managed to yank his face from Perry's grip. "Why do you only kiss me like this when you're angry?" he breathed.

Perry frowned. "I could punch you when I get angry, if you prefer."

JD raised his eyebrows at that, considering the alternative. "No, that's okay." He leaned against Perry and turned his face up to offer his mouth to the older man. Perry pressed against him. His hands traveled down JD's side, feeling him through his scrubs, counting his ribs as they made their way lower. JD gasped at the touch.

"If this is the kind of payback _I'll_ be receiving, I might need to scare you more often," JD gasped between kisses.

Perry jerked away. "No," he stated firmly. He shook JD roughly, once, watching as JD's eyes cleared and focused on him. "Do you hear me?" Perry asked. "You do not scare me like that. Ever. Again."

JD stared at the man for a moment, before smiling. "It was just a joke - "

"It's not funny!" Perry shouted. "I know it's hard for you to comprehend this in that pea-sized brain of yours, but - please - try to humor me by pretending to listen." JD stilled, his expression sobering as Perry continued. "It's not funny for me to walk into a room and come across your dead body. Do you understand? Is this making sense to you?"

"I'm sorry," JD murmured, his eyes wide. He had no idea Perry would be so agitated by this prank.

The older man looked JD's face over, his expression slowly softening. He reached up a hand, fingering a red spot at the corner of JD's mouth. "What is this?" he asked.

JD's tongue flicked out to taste the sticky substance. "Strawberry syrup," he answered. "I swiped it from the cafeteria."

Perry's eyes were fixed on the small red dot JD's tongue had missed. JD watched the man lean forward, felt the press of lips to the corner of his mouth, felt a familiar tongue brush against his skin. He turned to meet the mouth, eyes slipping closed as he did.

Hands came up to hold him firm against the wall. JD angled his head for better contact, pressing hard against the mouth pressing hard against his. He hummed against Perry, pulling back just enough to whisper, "Do I taste good?"

"You always taste good," came the growled response, before Perry's mouth closed over JD's once more. JD felt his legs go limp at Perry's words and leaned heavily on the other man. Perry fisted his hands in JD's hair, tugging him closer, opening his mouth to the other's probing tongue.

They didn't notice Carla enter the locker room until she screamed.

JD pushed Perry away and the three stared at each other - Perry's face drained of its color, JD's front still covered in fake blood, Carla's hands pressed tightly over her mouth. Perry swore and turned away from her, a hand reaching up to run through his hair. Carla's eyes flicked from Perry to JD.

JD searched his mind, looking for those lines he had practiced to the mirror if something like this should ever occur. "Uh . . ."

Carla lowered her hands from her face and reached down to grab the bag that had slipped out of her grasp. "Sorry," she mumbled as she beat a hasty retreat. "I think I'm at the wrong hospital . . . "

The two men stood still until the sounds of her footsteps could no longer be heard.

Perry whirled around and jabbed a finger at JD's chest. "See, that is why we can't be doing things like this anymore!"

"Oh, come on," JD said, attempting to sound nonchalant. "It's just Carla. She's not . . . she's not going to tell." JD grimaced as the words came out of his mouth. He knew they were untrue before he even _thought_ them. Judging by the look Perry was giving him, he had reached the same conclusion.

"No, that's it," Perry said, hand coming up to gesture nervously. "That's it. We're done."

"What?" JD cried out, stepping away from the wall. "One person sees and you're freaking out?"

"Yes, I'm freaking out, JD!" Perry hissed. "One person is one person too many. I'm done."

JD glared at the man. "Fine! If that's how you want this -"

"Yes," Perry interrupted.

"Fine," JD concluded.

"Fine!" Perry concurred.

"Fine!" JD pushed past Perry and stomped away.

Perry watched him go. Turning, he leaned back against a locker, raising his hands to rub against his face. He listened to the retreating footsteps, listened to them pause, listened to them do an about face and return to the room. Perry lowered his arms as JD reached him, hands coming up to grip the man's face tightly. JD pulled him down for a rough kiss. Perry held the kid's shoulders, bringing him close, letting loose a low moan into JD's mouth. The two broke apart quickly.

"See you tonight?" JD whispered.

"Yeah," Perry nodded. JD stole a final kiss before retracing his steps out of the locker room. Perry watched him go.

A loud siren sounded. He winced at the noise.

* * *

Perry opened his eyes. The siren continued a minute longer, then died away, followed closely by its hollow echoes. He groaned and pushed his face further into the scratchy cotton sheet on his cot. Waking up was the worst part about being here. The smell hit him like a ton of bricks. The lights were too bright and always found a way to seep in between his eyelids. The cat-callers roared to life as the guards walked by, trailing their night sticks along the cell bars.

"Rise and shine, my sleeping beauties!" called Fat Guard.

"Role call in five minutes!" shouted Short Guard.

Perry rolled over to face his cellmate, an older gentleman with a pleasant disposition. He might have made a good friend if Perry had thought not to ask what his crime was. Strangling an eight-year-old child just didn't sit well with him.

Of course, beating a forty-six-year-old janitor to death with an iron rod didn't sit too well with him either. Such was life.

"Did you dream again?" Frank asked. "You look disoriented."

Perry glared at the man. "That's none of your goddamn business," he said, his words muffled by the thin sheets. Frank shrugged and stood from his cot, preparing himself for another day in hell.

Perry shut his eyes. He had twenty-three days until he was taken to the small room in the back where the doctor would stick the needle into his arm. Twenty-three days until he closed his eyes and never opened them again. Twenty-three days until there was nothing left to do but search for the endless darkness for a familiar face.

Perry sat up and smiled. He couldn't wait.

* * *

A/N2: Feedback appreciated!


	4. Sticks and Stones

Title: His Mistake, Part 4/5

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: None

A/N: Written for impromptu50. Part 4 (or the Interlude, as I like to think of it) of the 'His Mistake' series. Not too much happening. Just Perry and his wandering thoughts. This part and the next were supposed to be one long chapter, but I felt that the topics varied too much so I split it into two segments.

Summary: Perry contemplates death and its various incarnations.

* * *

Eighteen days.

Perry lay on his cot, arms behind his head, and stared up at the cracked ceiling. Unidentifiable masses hung down an inch or two and fluttered when the air conditioner snapped on. They reminded him of the spit balls that clung to the ceiling of his school when he was a kid. He found it a little improbable that death row inmates spent their last days shooting globs of wet paper at the ceiling. Still, he couldn't figure what else they might be.

He had been shown his death certificate today. Cause of death: legal execution. Perry wasn't sure how he felt. He had always known he would die, but having it so clearly stated for him, so inescapably near . . . a piece of him wanted to be terrified.

Still, there was the side of him that looked forward to it, just a little. He had never died before. He had never been killed before. It was kind of exciting. He wondered if he'd be feeling this cocktail of fascinated doom if he were to die in a less peaceful, more painful way.

Being stoned to death would probably put a damper on his spirits. Then again, he had always enjoyed playing to the crowd. Stoning could be quick and efficient if the killers wanted it to be. Ten pound rock hurled to the head or back of the neck at twenty miles per hour would kill him instantly. But stoning was never made to be an exact science. And since when did a crowd want to see an execution go smoothly?

Perry rolled over and stared at the empty cot across from him. Frank had been taken two days ago. Perry wasn't sad to see him gone, but he did feel a soft ache in his chest when he looked at the abandoned bed. He wouldn't be receiving a new roommate before the end. He always knew he would be alone. He had just never expected to feel this . . . lonesome.

He wondered if they still hung people. That would be a terrible way to go. He had once seen a man come into the hospital who had tried to kill himself via the noose. He had nearly succeeded. His wife, who had discovered him, had been hysterical. She kept mumbling about the way his feet and hands had twitched as the thick rope slowly strangled him. The skin around his neck had been rubbed raw and was bleeding where patches of flesh were shorn clean away. Perry shook his head. No, hanging wasn't exactly his cup of tea. Unless the fall managed to snap his neck immediately, the dying process would be long and arduous. Besides, any execution where there was a chance of soiling himself before death occurred didn't really appeal to him.

The bulb in the ceiling flashed once, a warning that lights out would be in five minutes. People in the surrounding cells scurried about, completing any business they had before the blinding darkness overtook them. He hated the black. It pressed against his open eyes and sunk into his nose and mouth, making it difficult to breathe. Frank had hated the dark too.

People used to spend years in the complete darkness offered by the prisons of yesteryear. If they didn't go insane or kill themselves, the wardens would do the job for them. Usually they used unobtrusive methods, like starvation or sleep deprivation. But for a more hands-on approach, they would opt to press the prisoner to death. He, or sometimes she, would lie on their back on the cold stone floor, arms and legs tied down in an X shape. Then a weight would be placed upon the prisoner's chest. Pressure would be added continuously, over a period of minutes, hours, or days depending on how long the prisoner lasted. Weight upon weight - until the poor fool was smothered to death or killed by broken ribs and punctured lungs.

Perry had suffered a broken rib once. It had sucked. A lot. He couldn't imagine having all his ribs broken simultaneously. Any death that wasn't quick and relatively painless was not his first choice.

Of course, lethal injection wasn't without its risks. Perry rubbed a thumb over the soft skin behind his elbow. If the doctor didn't find the vein, or if the needle was stuck into his muscle or some other tissue he could end up lying there, withering in pain, for as long as fifteen minutes. Maybe he could ask to do it himself. Hell, he'd already taken one life. What was one more to them?

The lights flickered, then shut off. There was a surge in the noise levels of the inmates around him, but they soon tapered off as sleep descended upon the prison.

He closed his eyes. It would be just like falling asleep, Frank had told him. Perry scowled at the black. He didn't deserve such an easy death. Janitor didn't get an easy death. He dipped his head, burying his face in the flat pillow.

He thought about requesting a firing squad. Men in red coats and plumed hats with long, colonial-era rifles, with sights so inaccurate they wouldn't hit a target fifteen feet from them. Ten guns aimed for his chest would send out ten bullets to strike at his arms, legs, groin, neck, and stomach. Death would be bloody and long in coming. That would be more fitting.

The minutes ticked by, uncaring of the future they were bringing.

Seventeen days.

* * *

A/N2: In some states they _actually do_ make advance copies of death row inmates' death certificates. I had to research that to make sure.

PS - Feedback is appreciated!


	5. Puzzle

Title: His Mistake, Part 5/5

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Warnings: Character Death (duh)

A/N: Written for impromptu50. Final chapter of the 'His Mistake' series. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, and not just for this story. Every review I have ever received is like a little gift in my inbox. And I love gifts. Thanks everyone! :)

Speaking of the reviews I've been receiving recently, I just want to assure y'all - I am not a psychotic serial killer. :) Seriously. I know I write crazy, morbid things (which involve lots of people dying), but I am a totally normal person. Just want to make sure y'all know that . . . ;-) M'kay.

Summary: Perry wonders about life after execution.

* * *

He used to hate quiet time.

Every Sunday from the time he was born until junior high was declared 'quiet time'. Mostly it was so his parents could have angry sex without interruption, but sometimes it seemed to serve no purpose except to slowly bore him to death. He wasn't even allowed to play with his legos. Those bastards . . .

During college he had developed a tolerance for quiet time. Sundays were 'quiet days', and the dorm mods were quite strict in their discipline. Parties were for Friday nights and Saturdays. Sundays were for recovery. Didn't he know anything? Turn that music down!

After Jack was born he had learned to love quiet time. He now understood the significance of angry parental sex on the weekends. Very important in maintaining a healthy relationship with the witch he called his not-wife. And if that child touched his legos there would be hell to pay. Those things were _noisy_.

Perry sighed and looked around his new home. He had been transferred to a special set of jail cells, those reserved for the condemned. His execution was scheduled to occur in four days. Wardens kept him on round the clock surveillance, in case he tried to off himself before the doctor did it for him. He shook his head. That didn't make any sense. Why waste precious man hours to keep someone from dying if you were just going to kill him later?

He was learning to hate quiet time again.

* * *

He felt nervous. His remaining days were few.

The only good thing about the transfer was that he had a window now. He hadn't seen the sky in months. It was nice to watch the clouds drift by, become storms, rain themselves out and repeat.

Perry sat on his bed, his back resting uncomfortably against the rough cinderblock wall. He noted how everything in life tended to go in cycles. Everything. People, plants, weather, governments . . . Things only lasted for so long before they were torn down, just to begin again. He didn't understand why life was like that. Why get rid of a good thing just to start over?

He cocked his head to the side and stared out the window, running through his list again. Well, maybe _most _things that died deserved to. But not plants. They didn't do anything bad. Not really. Unless you hate . . . oxygen. And shade. And food, and wood. Then they were terrible.

Perry rolled his eyes at himself. He wondered what these cells were lined with. He felt like the intelligence was slowly being sucked out of him. He'd been having strange thoughts recently, all circling around in his head, constantly coming back to touch on the same subjects.

Stretching out, he lay down on the cot. He turned his eyes momentarily to the officer posted to guard him during the day. The elderly man sat hunched over in his chair, eyes closed, chest rising and falling at a slow, rhythmic pace. Perry offered the man a small smile and closed his eyes. He had recently found a new love for sleeping. The best part about it was waking up. He wouldn't get to do that much longer.

* * *

Perry wondered how literal the life cycle was. If he died here, would he be born again somewhere else? Would he come back? Did it work like that? Perry had never given much thought to the afterlife. Somehow he had always expected he might live forever. Maybe you do live forever, just not in the same body.

He stood at the window, staring up at the nighttime sky. A hand came up to rub over his face. Thoughts like these made his head hurt.

Perry had never put much stock in the idea of a Heaven. All that religious crap did was make him angry. Good people are rewarded and bad people go to Hell? That didn't make any sense. Good and bad are purely subjective terms, human-made descriptions to categorize people in an attempt to control them. Surely God didn't work like that. How do we know that his/her/its idea of good and our idea of good are actually the same thing? People waste their entire lives speculating on this crap.

_And here I am_, he thought to himself. _Wasting the last day of _my_ life_. He wondered if his sister would be proud.

But honestly - would someone like him find his way to Heaven? He had dedicated his life to saving others. He had been a good father. A good husband, kind of. And he had truly cared about . . . well. Him.

So he went a little crazy for a moment! So what? Everyone did that at some point. Not the killing, necessarily, but everyone did things they regretted. Should one mistake really keep him out?

Granted now, Perry countered himself, that there is _somewhere_ to be kept out of. Maybe it's just a big black . . . nothing. Maybe it's nothing. Like being unborn. There was nothing before him. Why should there be something after? No one can prove there's anything after this. Insects probably don't have a Heaven. Why should we have one? Because we stand upright and have opposable thumbs? Because we can think and reason and speak? Why should any of that matter?

Groaning, Perry slipped down the wall, curling himself up into a tight ball on the floor. Some might mistake his ranting as a prayer. He hoped he hadn't been praying. Too cliché.

He rested his forehead on his knees. He wondered if JD was up there. Or somewhere. Anywhere. He trembled slightly at thinking his name. He had tried to keep the kid from his thoughts while here. The young doctor had strayed into his dreams occasionally but eventually Perry had managed to quash those as well. But now he missed him. He buried his suddenly wet face in his hands.

If there was anything afterwards, he knew JD would be a part of it. There wasn't anyone more innocent and purely good than him. He deserved it. He deserved eternal happiness and . . . whatever else there was. He wondered if JD could see him. He craned his head back, peering out the window at the pricks of white amid the black sky. He wondered if JD would be disappointed in him.

_Probably not_, Perry chuckled to himself. _ The kid loved me too much. Too much._

Perry's smile slowly faded from his face. He wondered if JD had actually loved him. He'd never given it any thought before. He shook his head. Now was not the time. It was too late for thoughts like that. They would be coming for him soon.

* * *

Perry lay back on a table. A light shone above his face. He felt like he was in a dentist's office. There was even the hideous floral wallpaper ringing the room to complete the illusion. It was supposed to relax him. He felt his muscles clench slightly.

The flowers weren't working.

His wrists and feet were bound to the table. A small circular pillow had been placed beneath his head. He tried to steady his breathing. It would be just like falling asleep, Frank had said.

A face hovered above his. A mask hid most of the face from view. "Just relax," the doctor murmured. Perry heard someone behind him preparing a tray. Something clanged loudly.

Perry kept his eyes on the executioner. "I killed one person," he said. "How many have you killed?"

The doctor's eyes were unreadable. "Just relax," he said again. Perry grunted at the words. His eyes flicked down to his arm as a latex finger swabbed an alcohol patch over his skin.

"Futile effort, don't you think?" Perry asked, surprised at the soft tremble in his voice. The doctor glanced at him, then moved out of Perry's line of vision to throw the swab away. He returned holding a syringe. He pushed on the depressor experimentally, noting the drops squirt out of the needle. The doctor brought the needle to his arm. Perry wondered if he should watch.

Suddenly Perry wished desperately for a Heaven, or even a Hell. He didn't want to die. He didn't want this to be the end. He wanted to see his son grow up. He wanted to see his childhood home. He wanted to see the halls of Sacred Heart. He wanted to see spiked black hair and bright blue eyes.

Instead he saw a needle slowly slip into his skin. He felt the death serum entering his vein. The doctor pulled away and turned to dispose of the used instrument. When he came back, he simply stood beside Perry, hands folded. Waiting.

Perry closed his eyes. Frank was right. It was . . . just . . . like . . .

* * *

A/N: hahakhasldfhl! I'm done! Please, please, dear God please tell me what you think. :)

Big A/N for those who've been following along with this story: I'm planning on a sequel - sort of. The story will kind of be a continuation of this story, picking up where this chapter ends. How is that possible with everyone dead, you ask? It just . . . is. It features Cox and JD, so if you liked this story I hope you'll stick around with me for the next one. If anyone wants more details on it, I'll be glad to tell you. I just don't feel like typing more right now. Gotta go to work.


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